


The Devil You Know

by PR Zed (przed)



Series: Das Vadanya Tovarishch [3]
Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:22:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Victor Marton hears Illya has resigned from the Command he see an opportunity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil You Know

_Tuesday, September 19, 1972_

Victor Marton might have had an attentive look in place, but anyone with an ounce of wit or imagination would have realized that he was bored in the extreme.

Fortunately for all involved, no one matching that description was to be found in the room.

Marton was in the unenviable position of having to listen to the monthly reports of every junior level operative in the Paris satrap. Usually he arranged his schedule so that his second in command chaired these meetings, but he had somehow forgotten to do so this month. Which left him stuck in a stuffy board room, listening to boring men and women read boring reports and despairing of the future of Thrush, if this was the best they could come up with.

He amused himself by devising ingenious methods for murdering his unlucky underlings as they took their turns delivering their reports. He reserved the most gruesome deaths for the truly tedious or stupid. He was trying to decide whether the unfortunate young man in front of him deserved drawing and quartering or if a bullet in the head would suffice when he heard something that finally caught his attention.

"Repeat that," Marton ordered, sitting up fully for the first time since the meeting had started.

The young man, Willis was his name, gave a gulp, but read the item on his report once more.

"Illya Kuryakin has resigned from U.N.C.L.E. and taken a teaching position at a university in the Midwest." Willis--or was it Williams?--stopped and stood blinking stupidly at Marton.

"And?" Marton prompted.

"And...nothing, sir. There is no other information." The man clutched his report as if it could shield him from his superior.

"Well, get more information," Marton roared. "I want everything you can find in the next hour. Where he's teaching, where he's living. Why he resigned. Everything."

"But sir, he's just one U.N.C.L.E. agent. Why are you so interested?"

Marton shot Willis--he was sure it was Willis--a look calculated to cut its recipient to the core.

"Illya Kuryakin is not just any U.N.C.L.E. agent. And he is the last person I would have expected to resign. If you have to be told that, I suspect that you need to study our history."

"Yes sir," the man stammered out.

"I want that information in one hour. And you can include any current information about Mr. Kuryakin's former partner as well." He checked his watch noting that the meeting was meant to go on another fifteen minutes. He didn't think he could stand that, not with a far more interesting problem to occupy his time. "Ladies and gentlemen, this meeting is adjourned."

He stormed out of the room, noting as he did the looks of relief that crossed his subordinates' faces. They certainly weren't recruiting like they used to. But that might be about to change very soon. He allowed a shark-like smile to take up residence on his face as he considered what Thrush could do with Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin in its ranks.

It was an unlikely possibility, but ten minutes ago, Marton would have made a large wager that Kuryakin would never leave the Command.

Marton swept into his office, already making plans. 

* * *

_Thursday, September 21, 1972_

The lecture hall was like any other. The walls were a non-descript beige, while the desks were industrial grey. The hall was shaped like an amphitheatre, leading down to a small stage at the front, with a blackboard, an overhead projector and a lectern.

It was a lecture hall like any other. The only difference was that this lecture hall was presided over by Illya Kuryakin, former enforcement agent for the U.N.C.L.E. and one of the most dangerous and irritating enemies Victor Marton had ever encountered. He was an unlikely choice to teach an introductory physics class to several hundred bored undergraduates.

Kuryakin's eyes flicked quickly to the back of the room when Marton entered. Even from this distance, Marton could see the Russian's eyes narrow with suspicion, though he said nothing as yet. Marton took a seat in the last row and set about examining his surroundings.

The undergrads were the usual mixture, some clearly fascinated by the lecture on the conservation of momentum and some quickly succumbing to the lure of sleep. There were several young women in the class, Marton was interested to note, and almost all of them seemed as captivated by the instructor as by the instruction. Marton smiled quietly to himself at that; Kuryakin had always been far more attractive to the opposite sex than he had been comfortable with.

Marton followed the lecture with ease, pleased that he had not forgotten lessons learned decades before. At the hour, Kuryakin wrapped up, assigned the following week's reading and dismissed his class. The sleeping students wakened and left immediately, no doubt invigorated by the thought of escaping outside to a brilliant fall day. Most spent a minute longer gathering their books and making their exit. Marton watched with amusement as two of the women in the class made their way down to the podium to ask the professor questions. And flirt. Kuryakin handled their inquiries with courtesy and their flirting with a no doubt practiced obtuseness.

Exercising patience, Marton kept his seat as Kuryakin packed up his notes in his briefcase and prepared to leave. He would let his quarry come to him.

Kuryakin approached him with the wariness of a jungle cat nearing a larger predator. Marton waited until the Russian was several steps away, then got to his feet.

"Mr. Kuryakin, how nice to see you again."

He held out his hand in greeting, only to have it ignored.

"What are you doing here, Marton?" Kuryakin spit out.

"Now, that's hardly the way to greet an old friend." He kept his own tone amiable. He had not expected a warm welcome from this man. He would not be offended when he was greeted with suspicion and contempt. In fact, he had expected nothing less.

"We are hardly old friends."

"Acquaintances, then." 

"What do you want?" Kuryakin repeated.

"To make an offer for your services."

"I'm not interested. Good-bye." Kuryakin moved off toward the exit.

Marton realized he was about to lose the war before he'd even fought the battle. He took several long strides and grabbed hold of Kuryakin's shoulder.

Kuryakin gave him a flaying look, but he did stop.

"Why not hear out my offer? It can't hurt." Marton gave a sardonic smile. "And it might amuse you."

Kuryakin stared at him. He didn't quite smile, but his look did soften. Slightly.

He gave a curt nod of assent.

"Fine. I feel in need of amusement."

Marton had to restrain himself from rubbing his hands together in satisfaction.

"Shall we use your office?" he asked.

"A public place, I think." Kuryakin gave him a look that clearly said he did not trust his old enemy that far. "There's a coffee shop I sometimes visit."

"Lead on," Marton said, gesturing forward with one hand.

Kuryakin led him out of Sterling Hall and across the campus. Marton observed with interest the students that ebbed and flowed around them. He was even more interested in the site where the math building had been before the bombing two years ago. Perhaps there was hope for this new generation after all. 

Leaving the campus, they headed up State Street and into a small coffee shop that had at least a little of Europe about it. Kuryakin greeted the woman behind the counter, ordered two coffees and headed for a small room at the back. Marton followed him silently and sat at the table where Kuryakin had taken up residence. He glanced with approval at the bookshelves and comfortable furniture that filled the room. It was exactly the kind of place he would have expected to see Illya Kuryakin.

The Russian said nothing until their coffee was delivered. The woman gave Kuryakin a more than friendly smile as she served them. Marton wondered if the man was even aware that he'd made another conquest, but dismissed the thought as unworthy. Of course he knew--he had been a trained agent--but as usual he just wasn't interested.

Kuryakin waited until Marton had taken an approving sip of the coffee, and then he got to the point.

"And what, may I ask, is your offer?"

"I have recently heard that you quit the Command."

"You heard correctly."

"And taken a teaching job."

"As you have seen for yourself."

"All of which seems to me a terrible waste of material." Marton wrapped his fingers around his mug and took another long sip before continuing. "I think you can do much better than this."

"Do you, now?" Kuryakin was almost smiling. "What did you have in mind?"

"Come to work for me." Marton leaned back comfortably in his chair.

Now Kuryakin did laugh, a cold, mirthless sound.

"You must be joking."

"Absolutely not," Marton said with mock outrage. "Your talents are clearly being squandered here. A graduate student could teach that class."

"I teach others."

"Your skill at strategy is not being used at all."

"You've obviously never been to a faculty meeting."

"You have no opportunity to make real change here," Marton said, becoming exasperated. "We could give you real power."

"Perhaps I no longer want to make 'real change,' as you call it." Kuryakin gave a deep sigh. "Perhaps I am simply tired."

Suddenly, Kuryakin looked far older than his thirty-eight years. And just like that, Marton thought that perhaps the explanation was that simple. Perhaps Kuryakin had simply wearied of the game.

"You are serious," Marton said incredulously.

"As I have been trying to tell you."

Marton shook his head.

"I just cannot see you as an innocent bystander."

"I may be a civilian, but I'm hardly innocent."

"No," Marton agreed, "not innocent." He examined the man in front of him. "I wonder if you ever were."

Kuryakin did not deign to respond, but merely gave him one of those inscrutable looks for which he was famous.

Marton gave an inward sigh, aware that there was no power on earth that could cause Illya Kuryakin to vary from the course he had set for himself. It was disappointing, but it had been worth the attempt. If he had succeeded, ah, the things they could have accomplished. 

They consumed their coffee in companionable, if wary, silence.

As he finished the last of his drink, Marton decided that, if he could not win this man's cooperation, at least he could try and satisfy his own curiosity. He set down his mug and held his companion's gaze.

"It seems that I'm to leave empty handed. I was wondering if I might ask a question? As a consolation prize."

"You may ask," Kuryakin replied, the wariness of a spy haunting his eyes.

"How did your partner react to you leaving U.N.C.L.E.?"

Kuryakin must not have been expecting quite that question, because he gave a visible flinch as it was asked. He recovered quickly, but the vulnerability had been exposed.

"That is none of your business," Kuryakin said haughtily.

Marton smiled.

"As I thought."

And as quickly as that, all pretense of friendliness between them was gone. Kuryakin growled at him in Russian, a quite rude suggestion involving Marton's long dead mother, grabbed his briefcase and was gone. Marton remained sitting at the table for several minutes, toying with the now empty mug and considering his encounter.

No one had been able to discover exactly why Illya Kuryakin had abandoned U.N.C.L.E. to take a slightly lower paying position at the University of Wisconsin. The theories had ranged from a failure of nerve to a distaste for the political wrangling that was inevitable in their line of work. Marton had believed none of them.

He had suspected that the answer must lie with Kuryakin's partner, in and out of U.N.C.L.E., Napoleon Solo.

Marton, of course, knew of the two men's personal relationship. The fact that they were lovers had raised a few eyebrows within Thrush, but since it had not affected their work and since Alexander Waverly had proven immune to blackmail, it had merely been a seven-day wonder, ignored as irrelevant after its novelty had passed.

Given all they had gone through, it seemed extremely interesting that Kuryakin had left U.N.C.L.E. and Solo as definitively as he apparently had.

He would research this problem again, concentrating his attention on Mr. Solo this time. And then he would seek out the legendary Napoleon Solo himself.

He told himself he was going to try and recruit Solo, as he had Kuryakin, but he knew it was just an excuse. He was only gong to satisfy his own curiosity.

* * *

_Wednesday, October 4, 1972_

The Vanguard club was in the basement of a brownstone in the Village. It was cramped and smoky, with a low ceiling and too many tables. It was not the sort of place Victor Marton would have chosen to frequent, given the choice. But right now, he had no choice in the matter. He was seeking the elusive Napoleon Solo and this club was the only habit the U.N.C.L.E. agent seemed to allow himself. Occasionally.

This was the tenth night in a row that Marton had found himself at the club, sitting at a corner table, listening to music that he found fitfully pleasing and waiting for Solo to come through the door. The hunter was becoming bored with the hunt.

To combat the tedium, Marton reviewed the information he had obtained so far. From Kuryakin resigning and disappearing, to Solo trying to resign and then unsuccessfully chasing after his partner, it was all highly suggestive, if inconclusive. And then there was the most interesting fact that Solo had been promoted, finally, to Section One at the end of July. Marton took a small sip of a passable port as he considered the possibilities. But he wanted more data before he came to any conclusions.

The band this night was better than on his previous visits and he allowed himself to relax slightly, sparing the occasional glance toward the quartet. And that was how he nearly missed the entrance of his target.

Napoleon Solo was no longer the brash young man that Marton had first met so many years ago. There was an unexpected fatigue in his frame that made him show his age. 

But he was still a foe to be reckoned with.

Marton could see the exact moment when Solo registered that there was a danger in the club. The man's spine stiffened instinctively and he rose slightly on the balls of his feet, prepared to either run or fight. Solo's eyes scanned the sparse crowd and came to rest on Marton. A frown creased his forehead as he recognized the source of his consternation. Marton kept his own expression neutral, raised his own glass in greeting and then gestured at the empty chair at his table.

Solo raised his eyebrows, then shrugged his shoulders and made his way towards Marton's table. Marton could see him scanning the room, looking for and finding the two bodyguards that Marton was forced to endure. Marton did some scanning of his own and was moderately surprised to discover that Solo had no such guardians himself.

Upon reaching the table, Solo turned the empty chair so that his back was to the wall, and then undid the front button of his jacket, as much to provide easier access to his gun as to satisfy fashion.

"Marton." 

"Mr. Solo, what a pleasant surprise."

Solo's expression made it clear that he knew this was anything but a surprise.

"May I buy you a drink?" Since he had disrupted Solo's night, Marton thought it was the least he could do.

"I wouldn't say no to a scotch. Neat."

"Scotch it is."

Marton waved over the waiter and ordered the drink. When it arrived, Solo took a measured sip, then concentrated on listening to the music. Marton waited patiently, examining his companion out of the corner of his eye. Up close, he could see that his initial assessment was correct: Napoleon Solo was showing his age. But he was also still a handsome man, obviously active and with an undeniable charisma.

Solo would have appeared relaxed to an untrained observer, but there was a wariness and a tension in his body that was easily seen by Marton.

Marton waited through two numbers, playing the game, seeing which one of them would succumb to curiosity first. When the band put down their instruments for a brief break and Solo still showed no sign of talking, Marton let out a heavy sigh. He was an old man with little patience and nothing to prove. He took another small sip of his port, then turned his full attention on Solo. 

"I suppose you're wondering why I'm here."

"I didn't think you'd suddenly developed a taste for smoky jazz clubs."

"I was surprised to learn that you had."

"TouchÈ," Solo said with a slight smile.

"I believe your partner--I'm sorry, ex-partner--was fond of this place."

Though his expression didn't change, Solo's eyes suddenly went very cold indeed. If he had been a lesser man, Marton might have been alarmed. As it was, he was merely intrigued.

"Why are you here, Marton?"

There was no courtesy in the man's tone, no good humour. He was exactly what he appeared to be: an extremely dangerous enemy. But Victor Marton was a dangerous man himself, and didn't allow himself to be intimidated by anyone, so he played his hand exactly as he'd planned.

"I've just been to see your former partner."

Marton detected a slight increase of tension in Solo's shoulders, but otherwise, the man kept a poker face.

"Whyever would you do that?" Solo asked, then took a slow deliberate sip of his drink. 

"Well, Mr. Solo, I had recently been informed that Mr. Kuryakin had resigned from the Command. Never being one to miss out on a golden opportunity, I thought I would renew my acquaintance with Mr. Kuryakin and see if he was open to certain, ah, possibilities, shall we say."

Solo's face hardened further. 

"What kind of possibilities?"

"Possibilities of employment."

"You offered Illya a job?"

"Don't sound so shocked, Mr. Solo. I appreciate quality as much as the next man."

"You offered him a job," Solo repeated, shaking his head. "I wish I'd been there to see him hand you your head."

"Mr. Kuryakin was a complete gentleman. Well, for the most part."

"But he did turn you down flat." There was not a shred of doubt in Solo's voice.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"I bet," Solo said with a wry grin. He took another swallow of scotch before speaking again. "So, why come to see me?"

"To extend to you the same offer that I did to Mr. Kuryakin."

"And why would you think that I would accept, any more than he did?"

Marton cleared his throat, and considered his next words carefully.

"I was always under the impression that your loyalty was as much to your partner as to the Command. With your partner gone, I thought you might consider changing sides. And..." He paused, reeling in his prey.

"And," Solo prompted.

"And I thought that Thrush might be in a position to offer you, to offer you both, something that U.N.C.L.E. cannot."

"Which is?"

"Each other."

"What?" Solo's face twisted with an emotion that Marton had never seen him display before, and wouldn't have been able to name if he had.

"You see, I've been thinking about your situation, and I believe I know what happened."

Solo murmured something that he could not hear, so Marton ignored the interruption and continued.

"You and he had lived together for years, and you had been passed over for elevation to Section One twice? Three times? But as soon as he resigns, you are immediately promoted. It seems to me that U.N.C.L.E.'s commitment to equality and fair treatment does not extend to its own employees."

Again, Solo said something, and again, Marton ignored him.

"In Thrush, we have no such qualms about men such as you and Mr. Kuryakin. You would be allowed whatever personal life you chose, with no interference.

This time, when Solo spoke Marton had no trouble hearing him.

"Shut up," his voice loud enough that the patrons at the surrounding tables turned to stare at them for a moment.

Solo seemed to realize he was on the verge of causing a scene, since he lowered his voice when he next spoke.

"You stay away from me and you stay away from him." Solo punctuated each word by stabbing his finger in Marton's direction. "Neither of us needs any help from you or your organization."

Solo stood, threw enough money to cover his drink onto the table and strode out of the club, leaving several flustered waiters in his wake.

Marton shrugged apologetically to the room at large and settled back to finish his port as the band reappeared to do another set. 

He supposed he should feel satisfied that his suspicions had clearly been confirmed, but somehow he felt only dismay. To have such a talented team broken up for the sake of a silly prejudice about sexuality. He had not lied to Kuryakin when he told him that he abhorred waste, and this seemed the worst kind of waste, even if they were members of the opposition. Kuryakin and Solo, had both been born to work in espionage, and as a team they had been unbeatable. Even out of the field, they so clearly complemented each other.

Marton had a definite urge to pay a visit to Alexander Waverly and give him a good talking to. Except he knew that it could not be Alexander's hand behind this travesty. His old adversary was too practical, and valued fair play too much to allow this sort of nonsense. No, it had to be others in Section One who had insisted on the squandering of such talent.

And the shame of it was, it wasn't even waste that Thrush could capitalize upon.

Marton drained the last of his glass, the put some bills on the table, along with those Solo had supplied. The waiters would be well tipped for putting up with the antics of two spies this evening.

With a sigh, he stood and made his way out the door, his bodyguards trailing, unregarded, behind him. He paused slightly at the door to look back and reflect briefly on what might have been, before turning to face the reality of the future.

Behind him, the band played on.


End file.
